My tutor told me my task for this week was to do something I did not particularly like.
I don’t think I’m doing very well.
le deséspoir tout blanc
Tomorrow is my last appointment. Then I have a week of skiing (ie significant physical exertion every day) followed by a week on my own in a strange, foreign city, followed by a return to a nerve-inducing situation.
Part of me laughs at the idea that I can do this. Yeah, right. Once I’m charging around being energetic every day I’m really going to want to eat like a normal person. I’m not going to take advantage of being on my own, unsupervised, and I’m not going to be fazed at the thought of deciding where to eat and what to eat every day. The idea of starting back again never makes me want to curl up and hide, never makes me feel sick inside. There’s no way I’ll drift away from my mind and end up walking for hours around the city without knowing why. I won’t have dreams about hurting myself, or feel flickers of alarm every time an ambulance drives past or I see signs to a hospital. I won’t feel the need to know where the first aid kits are kept or how to make my way to a pharmacie. The thought of the number on the scales my housemate now keeps in the bathroom won’t cross my mind every day. Of course not.
And the thing is, I really don’t know. I could be fine, easily. I travel well, and I enjoy it, and I have all the skills I need to have a lovely, exciting, relaxing, enjoyable time. I’ve had time to plan and prepare and I’m feeling comfortable. I have my mother and my sister with me for the first week, and then I’ll meet other students, and then I’ll be back with my housemates and uni friends. I’m taking my laptop so I can access all the information and support I might need. As long as it goes well - as long as I am well - it’s all set to be a truly positive experience.
It’s just that a part of me - the part that’s laughing, skeptical, caustic - still doubts it. And I won’t know for sure until it’s happening.